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Donn’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared. So, after he did what she asked… risking his own neck by walking around of some flimsy Muggle roofs to check where these dumb hiding muggles were, this daft power-hungry witch wanted to give him a hard time for using the term Azkaban. She allowed no rebuttal to be uttered from Donn. She apparently had the ‘authority to make the choice' of taking the word of a raving mad warlock over a colleague. He took a breath in and had to mind himself that this was Hat lead Witch and he did not what to get on her Bad Wizard list. He did have a vague recognition that he had made some threat regarding Azkaban to Larkin, but it was hardly what “escalated" the situation. He was merely reminding Mr. Larkin that there were consequences for his actions. Unlike Mr. Larkin, Donn was under no delusions. He knew he was not in ‘any kind of position to decide who does, and does not, go to Azkaban’. If he did have that power, there would definitely be some rearrangement of the inmates and Mrs. Joanna Hennings and her mood swings was slowly looking more promising to be on the inmate list, if only for a short stay.

Bitter frustration simmered within his inner cauldron while he followed her next course of action. He was determined to get the job done and be rid of this mad Hat witch. A small part of him was impressed with the use of the battering spell as a distraction but he would have-not chose to use it himself. Donn was not one for cunning trickery, and he found most of its use of which disdainful. He would have preferred to just storm the house from the roof and face the wizard head on.

Apperating behind her, he followed her leed. He watched her juggle the battering charm and the wards with expert precision. It was obvious that this was not her first time breaking through a wizard's defenses. He was wondering if she had invaded any of his mother friend’s houses just for the fact they were known Death Eaters, while she gave her command and belittling question. Donn simply gave an answer of “Yes, of course.” Before she jumped and floated down into the Bathroom.

Donn mimicked her actions and landed behind and to the left of her. As soon as he did, she asked were the Muggles were. At that instant, Donn realized that his guess was wrong, the bathroom connected to a short hallway which connected a muggle living space on one end and their bedroom on the other. He also could no longer hear their voices. They must have been talking near of close to the hall where he overheard them. The living space which likely had the door to go down the stairs was quiet and seemed empty. So, he turned and pointed to the direction of the bedroom, whos door was closed. The Magical Accidents & Catastrophes employee was quite familiar to Muggle responses, and so concluded that the battering charm sent the muggle couple scurrying for their nests like rodents. The daft beings likely think a locked door and maybe some wood furniture would provide them protection from Mr. Larkin and his unnatural ability. Such simple-minded Idiots.

Donn squashed his internal commentary and simply answered, “It looks like the muggle couple figured it be best to barricade themselves into a room until help arrives. We could keep them here and place wards of protections on them and deal with them after we deal with Larkin. Or we can break into the Muggles room and stupefy them now so they don’t harm themselves and don’t experience any further stress. If it was up to me, I would rather keep the element of surprise we have on Larkin, but the choice is yours.”

Charlie looked from her to the vodka and she set her mouth in a hard line, ready with five million and one reasons her being a bartender wasn’t a poor choice. Besides the sheer absurdity of Charlie having any opinions on drinking, it -- the drinking -- wasn’t that bad, she reminded herself. She had been able to go nearly a year without it, being around it still and not partaking; she could go for a stretch of a few hours behind a bar. Never mind that she had jumped at the chance to toast to Charlie’s engagement, making the quickest one-eighty on her decision to not tell him about her lack of sobriety in the first place. But he still wasn’t looking at her, and she rolled her eyes again. She had more opinions about this than his marriage, that was for sure.

“You sure?” Fflur laughed, relieved he was commenting on the easiest thing to defend. “I could just put a mint leaf and a little umbrella and call it a mojito. Same difference.” But she smirked, aware that that was a requirement she wasn’t wholly keen on. She was counting on Luc giving her a bit of leeway when it came to customer satisfaction; didn’t every bar need a grumpy bartender, anyway?

Fflur laughed again, shrugging off the insinuation -- choking on his drink sure seemed like a good sign -- that her burlesque routine would be anything short of spectacular. Vesper had given her plenty of pointers, after all, though she was choosing to ignore the suggestion that she not climb into that giant martini glass, fully clothed, sipping at the drink with a bendy straw. Charlie was clearly thinking along other lines, anyway, and she smirked, closing her eyes for the second his hand was in her hair. “Doubt you could afford it, really.” More so that her skills were better suited to private shows, and that chance had passed Charlie by years ago.

Erm… Fflur looked at Charlie, eyes wide. “No.” The hesitation, the lack of eye contact; Fflur knew what he was going to say before his lips had moved. She hadn’t been expecting him and Kate to have already discussed it -- how long had they been engaged, anyway? -- and she shook her head as he finally looked at her. “Nah, can’t, mate.” She shook her head again. She was pretty sure the last dress she had worn had been for a family photo in the seventies, probably at Mamgu’s insistence. Even Nerys had conceded to the novel idea of a woman wearing trousers for her wedding. “Better ask Liam, he likes you more than I do.” Fflur shrugged, picking her glass up after tipping a bit more vodka out of the bottle. She raised the cup to him in a silent toast before knocking the whole thing back.

Instead of jumping in the puddles, Reina was jumping over them and laughing merrily every time she managed to regain her balance and save herself from falling face-first in the puddle. While it was a bummer that the lessons would be held in the greenhouse due to the rain, she was still happy to leave the castle since somehow the first year’s delayed arrival made her paranoid and slightly amplified her bathophobia – from breaking out in cold sweat and feeling slightly nauseated to feeling like she would have a panic attack if she stared into the darkness too long. Going in and out of the Slytherin Common Room alone was an absolute nightmare for her and she didn’t care how foolish she looked walking close to the wall – almost clinging to it – with her eyes glued either to the damp walls or the ground, and the wand-lighting charm becoming her best friend whenever she had to exit or enter the dungeon area.

But that didn’t matter now because she was out of the castle and even if the air smelled of rain and felt heavy with moisture, it was ten times better than in the castle. “Ah!” She cried out as she lost her footing and fell face-first in a puddle. With her good mood gone, she stomped her way to the greenhouse and upon reaching it (and making sure she was not standing under one of the leaks), she hung her wet robe and casted the Cleaning Charm on herself to remove whatever bits from ground that was stuck on her. A kind classmate came up to her and aimed their wand at her, blasting hot air in her direction that dried her clothes and warmed her up (and blew her bad mood away). Reina would forever be grateful to them but sadly, she couldn’t put a name to their face. Nevertheless, she thanked them before grabbing a cup of tea and took her place near the others, sipping her tea as she listened to the professor. Despite the thunder and how wet it feels, the greenhouse felt cosy today out of all the other times she had been here.

Reina deflated a little bit when she heard what they were supposed to do. At this point, if someone were to ask her what certain plants did, she could answer them but identifying them?! Unless if they looked as bizarre as the Mandrake, there was no way that she would be able to tell one plant apart from the other. The Head Girl – she knew as much because she noticed how pretentiously the Hufflepuff carried herself – started first and the others followed suit. Reina placed her teacup at the nearest surface and took out her journal that doubled as her notebook at this point, quickly scribbling how the plants looked and jotting their name after. Reina knew that she would have to get a closer look to really capture some of the characteristics but she could do that later. Sure, she could just read and copy from her a book but seeing the thing in person and drawing it herself would help more compared to someone else’s interpretation of it.

When the Gryffindor boy was done with his turn, she did a quick scan of the potted plants there. The longer she delayed answering, the higher the chances that she’d be stuck with the indistinguishable plants. She cursed the two Gryffindors who answered dandelions and lavender because she had wanted to answer with that but couldn’t figure out their uses in time. And that’s when she spot it. A squirming black mass that looked like a spiky slug no thanks to its protrusions. She knew this mostly from some advertisements in the Witch Weekly Magazine! This was one of those rare moments where something clicked in her mind in an instant. “I wanna go next!” She raised her hand that was holding her quill while bouncing in her spot slightly. “The pus from that plant is used in… um… beautifying potions!” Reina excitedly and confidently replied while pointing at the particular plant with the feathered end of her quill.

Bérénice sat on the edge of her desk, hands folded in her lap and holding her wand loosely. Her dark hair was up in a classic chignon, and her robes were a pale, baby blue, so she almost blended in with her students. Her students. It was official now, wasn’t it? She was a substitute no longer. In fact, she’d quickly been bumped straight up not only to Head of Ombrelune House, but also Deputy Headmistress. She knew why, though she would never admit to it publicly – they wanted someone they could trust, and they thought she was it. Was she? She wasn’t sure where she stood, right now.

Bérénice got to her feet, heels clacking quietly on the tiled floor, and smiled warmly at the faces peering at her. If she gave off the aura of being calm and composed, perhaps they wouldn’t be concerned about anything other than the lesson at hand. That would be preferable, at least. “Good afternoon,” she greeted them softly. It was the end of summer and a warm breeze was blowing through the open windows of the classroom, the sheer drapes billowing lightly every few minutes. Desks were arranged in pairs, with the anticipation that those who sat together could work together once the practical part of the lesson began.

“Welcome to Hypnosis, I am Professor Bonaccord. A little about me for our new faces; I am a trained hypnotist, and worked as a hypnotherapist at the magical hospital in Paris.” Best not to name-drop that particular institution – she didn’t want to bolster any rumours of her family name being anything to do with her success here or in her previous career. “Today we will be covering some basics of hypnosis. As you should all know, hypnosis is a trancelike state in which the subject – or subjects – enter a heightened level of awareness, and reduced interest in the periphery. In this state they are more susceptible, and we, as the hypnotist, are able to suggest to them.”

“Can anyone tell me the two forms of hypnosis, the difference between them, and how they might be utilised?” She paused, "And for extra points, what skill would be particularly useful for someone hoping to entertain with hypnosis?"

Maryana was eager for today's lesson. The past couple of days, the students of the History of Magic class had been studying about witch hunts and trials all over the world during different eras. As their unit was coming to a close, Maryana had an exciting project that resulted as their final grade. "As many of you will recall, I assigned each of you a name to research and write a three-page essay about these people who were involved in witch trials around the world during different eras. Some of you researched those who were charged and found guilty. Others were blamed and found innocent. One of you researched a judge. Because in many cases, the court was made up of the townsfolk, the accusers usually also served as the accused. Today..."

She smiled at the class with a glimmer of mischief twinkling in her eyes. If her students hadn't guessed by now, they were soon about to find out why they had researched these individuals. The desks were to the side. There was one classroom chair in the center of the room. "The one on trial will sit here," she motioned to the stiff wooden chair. Across from it was a table with a bigger, cushioned chair that had come down from Maryana's office for the event. On this table, there was nothing more but an hourglass in the center of it. "This is where our Honorable judge will sit. Behind the accuser, the rest of you will take your seats." Professor Nikolaeva had set up her own courtroom within her classroom. "We'll reenact some of those stories, every person playing the part they researched and having our own witch trials!" Her voice rang with excitement as she watched the students connect the pieces and were hopefully able to easily follow along with the information she had given so far.

"The rules are simple. There will be one judge. Then his court, or jury, if you will. As being victims who are placed on trial, you will each take turns. The rest of you will watch from your seats," she motioned to where they sat now behind the accused's chair. "And you will help decide if this person is guilty or not guilty. Put yourself in the days of old. Think of how your person felt about these trials. What would your character do if they were next on trial? Would they defend one person and cry guilty for another? There will be order kept in the court. I will play the neutral ground. All of you, please turn in a slip of paper with your person's name, status, occupation, and what they have been charged with. As you take your position, evaluate what may have brought your person to the stand. Why are they accused of being a witch? You can each reference your papers so that you can identify any important evidence that may help your defense. Your essays will be turned in at the end of class. If you sell your innocence well enough, you can have a different -or very similar- sentence to what your character was given. Those who are found guilty will be given a red ribbon to pin to your robes. Those who are found innocent will pin white ribbons to their robes. Be sure to take notes about tactics people use, what stories the judge is more sympathetic to, and which they find appalling. These can help you if you haven't gone on trial and may potentially be of aide with future quizzes and exams. Everyone, turn in your slips of paper, take your places promptly, record notes, and we will begin."

What better way to engage the students in history than to have them act it out? Maryana was thrilled with the idea she had been able to work through with some help from another Koldovstoretz professor. She took her seat off to the side so she could watch her students as they took their seats. "The order will go as follows. I will draw one of the papers you have turned in and read the information. Name. Status. Occupation. Accusation. The judge will then turn over the hourglass sitting on their table. The accused will have two minutes to defend themselves before the sand runs out from the top. You may speak, plead guilty, distract the judge, sit in silence, whatever you want to say or do as you make an attempt to prove yourself innocent. The judge may then ask you a maximum of five questions. When the judge is done asking questions, he will address the rest of you. You will then discuss with each other if the defendant's evidence is enough. When you feel as if you've reached a consensus, you will then vote Witch or Non-Witch lead by the judge. Points will be rewarded to houses for having full participation."

Once the judge, his court, and the audience had seated, she reached her hand into a bag the pieces of paper had been put into and pulled out a slip of paper of one of the victim's names. She read the information and the accusations against him before stepping back and allowing her students to lead the discussion, defending themselves and blaming others, and then deciding what the final sentence would be.

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>>OOC NOTE: First come, first serve. Whoever wants to be the judge, can. There will be only one judge for the class. This also applies to the first one being called. Just provide the information on the slip of paper and go from there. Everyone else will play as the accusers and be put on trial. Even those who have gone "on trial" can still actively participate in the discussion and help the judge decide if the "witch" is guilty or not guilty or being a witch. You can make up the name of the subject your character researched as well as their status and accusations against them. To help with the time-telling process, the first reply for the accused can be that your character's post is them defending themselves for two minutes before the questions are asked and the class decides their fate. Anya will post who is called next after each trial is completed. If you have any questions, feel free to pm me, make a post in the HoM board (label it questions for class), or post in my shipper!

SLIP OF PAPER CODE (please copy and paste in all posts for this lesson):

[b]Name:[/b][b]Status:[/b] rich (influential)/middle/lower[b]Occupation:[/b] Ex: farmer/healer/nurse/child/law enforcement/housewife/etc. you choose[b]Accusation:[/b] Ex: John Doe was blamed for being a man of evil after the quick recovery of a young girl from a terrible illness. The girl wasn't getting well until she drank some concoction he had put together claiming to be using secret ingredients and not ones healers would usually have accessible to them.

Beck was a bit disappointed when she brushed off his invitation to dinner. Joanna had seemed eager to try his cooking just a moment before… So it was a little curious that she lost interest so quickly. Unless she was the one who was disappointed? Did she want it to be just us? He hadn’t meant to give the Hit Witch the wrong idea. It was not his intention to seduce her – no matter how attractive he found her. Still, he wondered what would happen if he actually tried to turn on the charm. Beck had been much more successful with the ladies as an adult once he’d realised that some women found his unbridled enthusiasm for life to be exciting. However, he felt sure that Joanna was too level-headed to get caught up with such frivolous feelings. It was best to try and push such thoughts out of his mind anyway. Whether or not his lovely companion had desired a private dinner with him, did not change how unwise it would be to pursue such a relationship. He should stop overanalysing her behaviour for signs of mutual attraction and just focus on being a decent friend.

Yet it was proving difficult to get the idea of him and Joanna out of his head. Usually his mind was slippery and all thoughts passed through quickly, but very occasionally something managed to get stuck and it was almost impossible to get past it until he did something about it. So when she responded favourably to his tales, claiming that she could listen to him talk for hours without growing bored, all he could think was that he loved the way her eyes sparkled. When she expressed her desire to visit Italy one day, he found himself rather preoccupied with an unexpected fantasy. “Maybe…” He murmured softly as he looked at her, a mischievous grin forming on his face. Maybe you should take my hand and we’ll go now. Don’t worry about packing. Leave everything behind. We'll figure it all out on the way! That was the kind of impulsive thing he could do as someone without any ties. She certainly wouldn’t be the first witch he’d whisked away for a weekend of adventure and passion. But he’d signed on to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts for the year as well as making promises to his family. Beck actually had responsibilities for a change. Besides this was Joanna and there was no way she’d ever agree to such a thing.

So instead he said, "Maybe you should come over for dinner so I can give you a taste of Italy. You know, to hold you over until you can go yourself." Everything else aside, he did genuinely want to cook for her. He was also sure that his sister would enjoy having someone normal to talk to, which would also help to distract Jessica from pestering him and teasing him about his life. “It would really be no imposition.” Please say yes. Beck took a sip of his wine, enjoying the way the sweet fruity flavour played on his tastebuds. It was lightly sparkling, a common style for the Italian wine. It pleased him that Joanna seemed to like it and so he couldn’t help but add, “Moscato is actually a very light wine. It has half, or even less, of the alcohol content of the average white.” Smiling he nodded towards the bottle on the table to indicate she was welcome to drink as much as she liked. Hopefully she could enjoy it more now that she knew he wasn’t trying to get her drunk. It was certainly something that had factored into his choice.

Generally Beck was none too impressed with anyone that avoided or tampered with the truth just because they didn’t like it. As such, he could not approve of the way Joanna’s gran apparently approached history. However, he was very entertained by the idea of the game she and her brother had played with it. “I love Muggle mythology!” He said brightly, having not yet registered the subtle sadness in Joanna’s tone. “I honestly don’t think the Muggles are that imaginative.” He chuckled happily and drank some more of his wine. “So I like to play a similar game. But I do the opposite – I try to find the magical explanation for the stories! Like the Minotaur! That was clearly a partial transfiguration by a wizard.”

Then his cheerful smile dropped suddenly as his instincts kicked in and told him to pay attention to what Joanna was saying – and what she was not saying. In his line of work he had to know how to read people to at least some extent. Joanna was clearly practiced at managing her expressions but he thought he had caught something in her voice or the glint of her eye… She’s sad. He was shocked to realise. She’s really, really sad. Putting down his glass, Beck leaned forward with a deep frown of concentration and concern furrowing his brow. Even though at times he’d been accused of being emotionally detached, Beck did really care about people. Right now he wanted to cheer Joanna up but he wasn’t sure why she was even sad in the first place. It hadn’t sounded like her childhood was really bad enough to explain this unexpected shift in Joanna’s mood. So what is it? If he was going to fix this, he needed more information. For the second time that night, he reached across to place a reassuring hand on her arm. “What’s wrong, Joanna?” He asked softly and with much more tenderness than he usually used in questioning. “What do you wish you could change?”

Well, at least Professor Winchester had not seen it necessary to pick on him for his outburst, something Owain was grateful for. And Carey had picked up house points for Gryffindor, which was never a bad thing. Wait? Did the Professor just say you could have too much information? Owain looked down at his attempts at notes, brow furrowed in confusion. Wasn’t information a good thing? Oh Merlin, he hated this subject. Nothing made sense. And then the Professor stood on his desk…

Owain was sure his eyes widened along with the other students. What was Professor Winchester doing up there? Were they all going to get to stand on their desks? Owain could easily admit that that sounded fun. Being high up, be it on a broom or on a table, was appealing. Unfortunately, the Professor came down before inviting the rest of them to join him, holding a dusty old light. He then began spewing out numbers. Owain swore he tried to listen to them dutifully and note them down. He really did. It was just that it was so easy to get confused in this class. Before he could finish writing down floor slabs are squares; they are 42.9cm, all the students were summoned to the front of the classroom to look… at the floor?

Although never one to be unhappy about leaving his seat, Owain was slightly confused as to how they couldn’t just look at the floor from their desks. Nonetheless he looked down at the bare floor with everybody else, squinting as his eyes went from daylight to darkened classroom. What in Merlin’s name was going on? Light could be measured? Wasn’t it just, like… light? There and everything. He often wondered who had first looked at these things and decided not to accept it as is. Who had so little to do in their lives that they found time to think about this?

Listening unhappily to Professor Winchester’s explanation, and taking exactly none of it in - hey, take that exaction! - Owain looked at the facts on the board. What? Wait, scrunching his eyes slightly in concentration. 412.9 and 412.9. They were the same number, right? He looked again. Yes, they definitely were. So, was it a trick question? Why wasn’t anyone answering? And why was Nell no longer by his side so he could quickly whisper his question to her?!

Just before he could open his mouth and ruin his run at never attempting to answer things in Arithmancy, part of his brain clicked into position, helpfully pointing out something that proved that Professor Winchester had managed to teach him something over the years he had been in the class. The numbers were in centimetres and millimetres! This was a conversion problem! And they had done conversions last year.

“So a millimetre has to be times’ed by ten to make a centimetre. So you need to times the fluid by ten to light the floor?”

Knobweed! Was that his voice? He had been meaning to aim that as a whisper at Nell, but her not being right next to him meant that the question had carried to the rest of the classroom. Definitely not his intention. Oh well, he was sure the Professor had a long, nonsensical explanation as to why he was wrong. Just keep quiet next time!

Owain let her go as Barbie withdrew, although part of him wanted to reach out and pull her back. He always felt more comfortable with physical proximity than she did though, relying on actions rather than words. He just always seemed to mess up with words. Like right now. Owain could tell he had upset her, but he didn’t understand how or why. She knew Professor Trelawney’s fondness for death and destruction as much as the rest of the divination class did. It wasn’t as if he was actually suggesting that dying in a giant fireball was how he wanted to go. In fact, Owain was sure that actually rated pretty low on ways to die.

He just nodded in response to her though, unwilling to contradict her although disappointed with her words. Confirming his doubts and fears. She didn’t like him like that. No chance, as if it was just ridiculous to even think about. Why would she ever want to spend time with him in that way? Barbie clearly just saw them as friends and nothing more. As much as he thought Nell was highly intelligent and normally always right, this was a case that she was wrong. Barbie did not like him the same way he liked her.

Owain followed her back into their alcove, downhearted but unwilling to leave. He would take their friendship over nothing any day. Staring, what he assumed was pathetically, at her as she struggled to get dry and warm, Owain suddenly realised he could do something about that. “Oh,” he said dumbly, fishing his wand out of his own soaked robe, “we learned the hot-air spell in Charms this week. I think I can dry us both off?” Slightly questioning, especially since while he hadn’t caused anything to explode while attempting the charm, it hadn’t exactly been a success. Now, what had been the silly wand action? Owain always thought he should be able to pick them up easier than he did. After all, he could pick up complex dance moves, and surely wand movements were just dancing with his hands?

“I’ll do it to myself first,” he said, looking at her affectionately, “don’t want to hurt you or anything.” With a complicated little wave that involved two specific flicks and a wrist rotation, Owain murmured, “ventus calidus,” and watched delightedly as a ripple in the air at the tip of his wand indicated that he had done something right. Pointing it at himself, he felt the hot air gush at him, the steam rising from where it hit his damp clothing. The stream of air was probably a little more direct than he had been shown in class, and Owain felt like he was being battered by the force of it. Nonetheless, it managed to dry him off as planned, leaving him surrounded by the slight frying sound of the steam being expelled from his robes.

“Em, it’s a big stronger than I expected,” Owain called over the sound of the whoosh of air. “Brace yourself,” he said warningly as he turned his wand towards her. Very careful not to point it at her face, he held his wand low, directed at her stomach. Now that she had rid herself of robes, Barbie was only clad in a dress, and Owain did not think he would be in her good books if the gust of wind caused her skirts to blow up. Once satisfied that she looked a lot drier, and hopefully warmer, than when he had started, Owain dropped the spell. He hadn’t touched her hair, knowing that blasting a girl’s hair with uncontrolled hot air was never a good idea.

Smiling sheepishly at her. After all, it was kind of his fault she was wet in the first place, Owain sat himself on the bench. If he sat down then he would not be tempted to repeat the move of dragging her out to dance with him. He sat sideways, his back against the wall and his feet on the bench with knees bent. Hugging his legs with his arms, head bent to rest on them, he gazed at her curiously wondering if she was still annoyed at him. “I need to make it up Barbie,” he said eventually, referencing their previous conversation. “She wouldn’t give me any grade if I just wrote that I don’t have dreams at all. I can’t fail everything. I’m not as smart as you or Nell.” He may be trying desperately to avoid both the conversation and the thoughts but Owain was actually worried about his OWLs. What would happen if he got none?